


The Where the Heart Is Affair

by arysteia



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Comfort Sex, M/M, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-19 09:46:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10637334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arysteia/pseuds/arysteia
Summary: When you have to go there, they have to take you.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inalasahl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inalasahl/gifts).



> For inalasahl, for the prompts "tenderness" and "comfort sex". I hope you enjoy it.

There's nothing quite like a sudden rainstorm in downtown Athens. The antiquated pipes, unequal to the task so seldom asked of them, give up the fight within minutes, and the drains start overflowing shortly thereafter. At that point anyone sensible retreats indoors to wait it out with a thick, sweet coffee and an ouzo chaser, rather than wade through the filthy water, but there's nothing sensible about the man they're surveilling today.

Napoleon would quite happily drown him in one of Omonoia's back alleys turned rivers and be done with, if they didn't still need to identify exactly which Member of Parliament he's been meeting with on behalf of THRUSH. The politician, however, has been distinctly more circumspect than his compatriot.

By the time they make it back to their hotel Napoleon is soaked to the skin, exhausted, and wants nothing more than a hot bath and to climb into bed. Maybe with a tall, athletic Russian, maybe with a plate of toasted sandwiches and a bottle of scotch, maybe both. He's honestly not feeling very discerning at the moment.

The pretty girl at the front desk, who's been flirting with him all week, expresses shock at their dishevelled state, and he stops to play it off, foolish foreigners unable to find their way home with all four hands and a map, while Illya shakes his head, a tired grin on his face, and heads upstairs.

It's just as well he stopped, because there's a telegram from Waverly waiting for him, marked urgent. He opens it as he starts up the wide central staircase, reads the first few words, then stops to sit down, oblivious to the dirty puddle he's making on the white marble steps.

Fuck.

He reads the whole thing twice in the hope he's somehow misunderstood, but no, there it is in unforgiving black and white.

> _NADIA KURYAKIN DEAD MOSCOW STOP LEAVE TO RETURN NOT GRANTED PER RUSSIAN EMBASSY STOP BETTER FROM YOU STOP PASS CONDOLENCES UNCLE STOP WAVERLY_

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

Goddamn Waverly and his bloodless good manners. Napoleon gets up, walks back down to the lobby, and asks the bemused Alexia to put through a long distance call to London. It'll be late evening there, but that's why he made a point of stealing Waverly's classified personnel file and memorising his home telephone number.

"Yes?" a coldly irritated voice says as the call connects.

"It's Solo."

"We're in the middle of dinner."

"Dinner?" he demands, incredulous. "You must have known I'd call."

"Yes, I rather thought you might," Waverly says, confirming Napoleon's suspicion that he'd known all along about the break in and had chosen to turn a blind eye. "Have you told him?"

"Not yet. You can't be serious about not letting him go back for the funeral."

Waverly sighs deeply. "It's not up to me, Solo. And there's not going to be a funeral. Mrs Kuryakin was cremated, as I believe her husband was some years ago. Oleg Kuznetsov assures me it was all done correctly, but there's no ceremony allowed for 'traitors to the motherland' or their families."

" _Traitors_?"

Alexia looks up in alarm, and Napoleon forces himself to smile at her before moving as far away as the cord will reach.

"Yes," Waverly says. "As I understand it, wives and children automatically shared the status of those convicted during the purges. The Kuryakins were quite fortunate, as it happens. A few years earlier and she'd have gone to a labour camp and her son to a special-regimen orphanage."

" _Her son_ was in the military and the secret service for over a decade, and never had a disloyal _thought_ about the _motherland_ , despite everything it took from him."

Well, except for the whole incident with the computer tape in Rome, but they've never admitted to that, and the KGB can't possibly know for sure it wasn't lost in the struggle. Even Sanders had eventually accepted that it had been destroyed.

"Yes," Waverly agrees, and to his credit he does sound sorry. "I did ask, Solo, please believe me. Kuznetsov was quite clear that Agent Kuryakin is to continue with his current assignment. He can take it up with the embassy personally when he gets back to London."

"This is bullshit," Napoleon says. "You must see that."

Waverly sighs again. "And you must understand, surely, that there's no way they'll ever let him back into Russia unescorted after four years living and working in the West. Especially not after being partnered with you."

Napoleon's blood runs cold and his throat is starting to ache.

"Did you know that when you asked him to stay on?" he asks quietly.

"To be honest I didn’t think he'd _want_ to go back, once he'd spent enough time here."

And Napoleon can't find fault with that, much as he wants to. He'd assumed the same. He'd never given Illya's mother more than a moment's thought after that first awful conversation, and the apology Illya had curtly cut off on the balcony in Rome.

The silence stretches awkwardly between them.

"Look," Waverly says at last. "I'll send another team to Athens to finish the Kyriakos business. Take him somewhere, wherever you want, I know you've got money, and you know him better than anyone, what'll take his mind off things. Be back in London in a week. That’s the best I can do."

"All right."

He gets a few more details, then hangs up the telephone receiver. Alexia asks if there's anything she can do to help, but he just tells her that everything is now in order, and begins the weary trudge up the stairs to their rooms.

* * *

He bypasses his own room, heads three doors further down the corridor. Illya's in the bathroom when he lets himself in, so he pours himself a drink, swallows it quickly, and refills his glass. Pours Illya one too. Takes off his sodden jacket and his tie, kicks his ruined shoes under the couch, and paces nervously as he tries to think of exactly what to say. It's a new experience, Napoleon Solo lost for words, but he doesn't think he's ever had to tell someone something so important before, or with so much room for error. Not someone he _cares_ about, anyway.

Four years in an organisation where he doesn't have to constantly fight for basic respect, and with partners – _friends_ – he can trust with confidences as well as his life, have made Illya less prone to physical outbursts, but his emotions are still unpredictable. The six months he and Napoleon have been _more_ than friends haven't really done anything to change that.

And that's the problem right there, in a nutshell. They're more than friends but less than… Lovers? Intimates? Companions? They've managed to go six months without ever acknowledging that there's more at play than camaraderie, chess games, cooking, and extremely good sex. But there _is_ , at least on Napoleon's part. If Illya was his girlfriend, he'd know exactly what to do, he'd…

God damn it. Illya is most decidedly _not_ his girlfriend, but there's no fucking reason it should be any different.

He takes another sip of his scotch and unbuttons his waistcoat, rolls up his shirtsleeves.

The bathroom door opens and Illya emerges in a cloud of steam. The towel he has wrapped around his waist is practically handkerchief sized on his huge frame and conceals little. He's flushed pink from the heat, his hair is a spiky mess instead of its usual combed perfection, and Napoleon has never loved or wanted him more.

It really is no different.

"I left you some hot water," Illya says. "Did you order food? I don't want to go out again."

"In a minute," Napoleon says. "Come and sit down."

Illya looks sceptically at the watermarks Napoleon is leaving on the brocade of the couch and pulls open the top drawer of his dresser.

"Go and wash," he says. "You'll catch typhoid."

"Illya, _please_."

Illya looks back at him in surprise, rapidly morphing into concern, and comes over to the couch, pyjama pants forgotten in his hands.

"What has happened?" he demands. "Is Gaby okay?"

"Gaby's fine," Napoleon assures him. "Sit down."

"Tell me what has happened," Illya insists.

Napoleon stands up, takes both his hands in his, and pulls him down to sit beside him. Illya doesn't go easily, body stiff as a marble statue, and just as unwieldy. He tries to pull his hands free, fingers already twitching, but Napoleon holds on tightly, pyjamas falling unnoticed to the floor.

"Napoleon," Illya says, and his voice is high and breathy, in a way Napoleon has never heard it.

"I'm so sorry," Napoleon says. "I spoke to Waverly. Your mother died on Tuesday. I'm so, so sorry, Illya."

"What?"

"Illya."

"What? I don't… What?"

"Oleg contacted Waverly. It was a heart attack. Very sudden. She didn't suffer."

"Let go of me," Illya says.

"No," Napoleon says. "Illya."

" _Let go of me!_ " Illya shouts, shoving at Napoleon even as he tries to pull loose. He looks panicked, more than grief stricken, and Napoleon lets him go.

He lurches to his feet, stumbling into the coffee table, then reaches down and sends the whole thing flying. Files and surveillance equipment and reels of film go every which way, as he backs into the corner of the room and visibly tries to calm down.

"Illya," Napoleon says, like he's a broken record, repeating the same single word over and over again.

"I'm okay," Illya says, though he doesn't sound it. He sounds like he's just swallowed broken glass. "I'm okay. Just… Just stay there."

"All right," Napoleon says, and he stays seated on the couch, though it's one of the hardest things he's ever done.

Illya's hands are shaking like they haven't in years and his breathing is fast and ragged, great gasping inhales and violent exhales that are very nearly sobs.

It continues for nearly five excruciating minutes, then he says in an almost normal voice, "I'm okay."

Napoleon nods, but he stays where is. His own hands are desperate to touch Illya, but he'll wait for Illya to feel comfortable, to come to him.

"Did Oleg say I could come home?" Illya asks at last.

"No," Napoleon says. "He said to come see him at the embassy when we get back to London. I'm sorry."

Illya just nods, and it's obvious he wasn't expecting anything else. It's that that finally breaks Napoleon's heart. That Illya had so clearly known all along what it meant to go to Istanbul instead of back to Moscow, when no one else even considered it, and he'd done it all the same.

"We could go anyway," he says, throat thick with shared misery. "I broke into the Hermitage once, I've still got contacts in Leningrad. You must know people too. Who could stop us?"

"No," Illya says. "It doesn't matter anymore." And then he starts walking, no hesitation, straight across the room towards Napoleon.

Napoleon lurches to his feet gracelessly and opens his arms in time to catch Illya round the waist as he falls into him. Illya wraps his own arms around Napoleon's shoulders and buries his face in his neck, and he's sobbing for real now, his whole body shaking with it, tears hot and wet as they soak into Napoleon's open collar.

It tapers off eventually, but Illya doesn't let go, so Napoleon keeps hold of him and backs them carefully towards the bed. He sits down when the back of his legs hit the mattress, and between them they somehow manage to crawl up it without really letting go of each other. Illya lies there on top of him for a while longer, arms still tightly wrapped around him, and he's a dead weight, crushing Napoleon beneath him, but Napoleon doesn't care, just keeps one arm around his waist and uses the other to stroke his wet hair as his breathing slowly evens out.

Napoleon must fall asleep too, eventually, because when he wakes again it's dark in the room, broken only by the soft golden lights of the Acropolis, visible through the open window. It must have been the start of the _son et lumière_ show that woke him; he can hear the music distantly, and the occasional burst of fireworks.

Illya shifts against him, then raises his head.

"Napoleon?" he asks, voice hoarse.

"I'm here," Napoleon says. "Go back to sleep if you want to."

Illya shakes his head firmly, then shifts his weight to one side, moves to stroke Napoleon's cheek with one of his big hands. Napoleon leans into it gratefully, turning his head to press a kiss to Illya's palm.

Illya just looks at him for a few moments, an expression he's never really seen before on his face, then says quietly, carefully, "Can I?"

He's never really asked before, not like this. They fell into bed together the first time as the conclusion to an argument, and just about every time since has been fraught in some way, whether it's been the adrenaline high of a successful mission, or the desperation that sets in after a close call, or even just the cheerful-but-with-an-edge bickering that usually fills their down time.

"Always," Napoleon says, and surprises himself by how much he means it.

Illya leans down, and Napoleon moves to meet him halfway. He cups the back of Illya's head in his hand, and Illya shifts his own arm to support Napoleon's neck. Their lips meet, lightly at first, then more firmly, and it's completely different to all the other kisses they've shared, slower, and gentler, and yet deeper somehow.

They kiss for a long time, not in any hurry to get anywhere, then Napoleon pushes on Illya's shoulder, rolls them both till Illya is lying on his back and Napoleon is curled against his side. He pushes his fingers into Illya's short hair, dry now, and curling gently at his nape, and just enjoys the feel of it, soft and free of brilliantine. He strokes down over Illya's face, the arch of his eyebrow, and the harsh white lines of the scar at his temple, and the sweep of his cheekbone, all things he's wanted to do before but never really taken the time.

Illya's hands inch down his neck and onto his back, fingertips dragging across his shoulder blades, and he's smiling softly, though his eyes are still rimmed red.

Napoleon leans in again to kiss his mouth and his chin and his throat and the hollow where his collarbones meet. Illya's eyes drift shut, and Napoleon starts to work his way down his chest, pressing soft kisses to the line of his sternum and down his flat belly where he stops to press his nose into his navel. It must tickle, because Illya breathes in sharply and shifts his legs, and that brings his bare cock into contact with the underside of Napoleon's jaw, towel long since lost, and he's not quite hard yet, but he's getting there nicely.

Napoleon's been hard for what feels like forever, woke up that way – _how could he help it with the warm weight of Illya on top of him?_ – and he shifts more fully over him, reaches down and wraps a hand around him.

Illya moans quietly and rocks his hips. Napoleon leans in and licks across his iliac crest, strokes his cock with his hand. He stiffens the rest of the way almost immediately, and shifts one of his hands to the back of Napoleon's neck, presses down lightly. Napoleon goes more than willingly, opens his mouth and takes the head of Illya's cock inside.

He sucks at him lightly, licks around the crown, then shifts to take in more of him. He's done this a lot, both with Illya and with others, knows a lot of fancy tricks, but he doesn't use any of them tonight, just bobs his head gently, breathes deep, and lets Illya slip into his throat.

Illya gasps, and his fingers dig hard into the base of Napoleon's skull.

" _Polya_ ," he moans.

Napoleon grips his thighs hard, fingertips leaving his own set of marks, and keeps going, sucking hard on the upstroke, then licking his way back down. He continues for a few minutes, could honestly keep doing it forever, but Illya is starting to shake under him, so he pulls off with a final kiss to the flushed head, then moves back up Illya's body to kiss his mouth again.

Illya pulls him in hard, crushes him against his muscled chest, sucks on his tongue and bites at his lips. His hands shift against his back, then catch at the bottom of his shirt and pull it and his undershirt up over his head in one go. Napoleon lifts his arms to help, then drops his hands to the catches on his trousers. Illya's hands move to meet his, push his trousers and underwear down to his knees, then help him lift far enough to get them the rest of the way off.

He shifts to straddle Illya's slim hips, then leans over to the bedside table, retrieves the tin of Vaseline from the back of the drawer. He dips his fingers into the sticky jelly, then braces one hand on Illya's chest and reaches between his own legs with the other. Illya's thumbs stroke back and forth over his inner thighs as he eases one finger, then two, inside himself, spreads the Vaseline around, works himself open.

Illya pulls him down to kiss him again, holds him there as he smears the last of the jelly on Illya's cock. Napoleon pulls free reluctantly, shifts backwards, cants his hips till he feels the head of Illya's cock against his hole, then slowly presses himself down.

Illya's hands clench on his hips, take some of his weight, help him set a rhythm, as he slowly raises onto his knees, pulling almost all the way off, then pushes back down to take Illya fully inside him again. They continue that way for a few minutes, then as Napoleon's thighs start to burn Illya pulls him back down, wraps both arms tightly around him, shifts his legs so he can plant his feet more solidly against the mattress and get the leverage to thrust.

Napoleon gasps as he gets the angle right, hits the perfect spot inside, and he slides his sticky hand down in the tight space between their sweaty bodies to his own cock. He's so close, it only takes a few strokes and then he's coming with a choked off moan. Illya keeps fucking him through it, a gentle rocking motion of his hips, and just when it's on the verge of being too much his whole body arches and he comes too, a flood of warm wetness deep inside.

He lies there a moment or two, Illya's chest heaving under him, as he struggles to get his own breath back, then he reluctantly shifts to the side to let Illya's softening cock slip out of him. He rolls onto his back but keeps his eyes on Illya, Illya who is still breathing heavily and starting to shake as he comes down. Napoleon reaches for him, wraps a hand around his shoulder and pulls till he moves to curl along Napoleon's side, rest his head on Napoleon's chest.

They lie there, a sticky mess, where usually one or other of them would be shifting to begin the inevitable tidy up. He uses his clean hand to stroke Illya's head and neck again, till he stops shuddering and begins to relax.

"I'll never go home," he says suddenly, shattering the silence, and he sounds like he has all the weight of the world in his exhausted voice.

Napoleon pulls him closer and whispers fiercely, "You _are_ home."

Illya convulses against him and starts to cry again, silently this time. Napoleon holds him tightly, and begins to plan for a future he hasn't dared to dream about in a very long time.


End file.
